


A Certain Brand of Heroic Defiance

by VanLudwig



Series: The House of the Serpent [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Pickup Lines, Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Plotting, Rivalry, Sassy Harry, because we all know what book harry was like, but im not telling you anything you dont already know, draco and pansy are besties, draco is also gay as hell, implications of sex magic, indignant Draco, pansy is gay as hell, school rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 13:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12705942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanLudwig/pseuds/VanLudwig
Summary: Draco is the only one who can see that Harry Potter is just as much of a little shit as he is. He's determined to do something about it, even if it means drinking heavily and sexually harassing him in class.





	A Certain Brand of Heroic Defiance

He was a little shit. They both were, in complete honesty, but what really irked Draco was that everyone thought it of him but no one thought it of Potter. His parents said it regularly of him, though not in those exact words. His “attitude problem” was just that, a problem. Potter also had an attitude problem, but did anyone call him out on it? Heavens, no. Not our Savior Saint Potter. But it was absolutely undeniable, in an unbiased, parallel analysis of both their behaviors. Potter was a little shit. The only difference between them was that people praised Potter for his “quick wit” and “heroic defiance” - gag - whereas most people outside of Draco’s immediate group of friends simply told him to stuff it. 

Take today, for instance. Draco hadn’t even set foot outside of the Slytherin common room when word had begun buzzing around that Potter had gotten detention from Snape. Draco allowed himself one indulgent chuckle. He knew the moment he found out the details of the interaction that had led to said detention, however, he would no longer be so amused. More of Potter’s certain brand of heroic defiance, no doubt, causing the school’s population to swoon with admiration for their Savior of Snark. 

He was proven correct as he walked in on a re-enactment of the scene, the drama staged right outside of his Charms class. Gryffindors, of course, who were claiming to have witnessed it all, folks, to a group of starry-eyed Hufflepuffs. He stifled his annoyance long enough to satisfy his curiosity. The boy playing Potter pretended to cast a spell on a classmate, mimicking Potter’s voice with entirely too much bravado (when Draco performed his far more accurate Potter impersonation, he did things with the proper amount of sniveling). The classmate dramatically fell to the ground, which is when a Gryffindor girl, robes around her head like a Dementor, rounded on the triumphant would-be-hero. “Didn’t I tell you,” she intoned gloomily, “We are practicing nonverbals, Potter.”

“Yes,” the Potter spat with a roll of his eyes. 

The Snape impersonator stifled a chuckle before, with Herculean effort, composing herself. “Yes, sir,” she corrected, voice loud and reproachful before snickering again. 

The whole crowd waited with bated breath before, at last, the punchline was delivered: 

“There’s no need to call me sir, Professor.”

Draco groaned as the crowd cheered and fell to hysterics. What a little shit, and look! Did anyone notice how absolutely petulant the supposed-comeback was? Of course not. If Draco had said it to McGonagall or, heavens forbid, that oaf groundskeeper, no one would have laughed. No one would have cheered. Draco would have served his detention in obscurity, but because the words came out of Saint Potter’s Chosen mouth, it was a witticism coated in fucking gold. 

Draco marched up to the pretend Potter. “Quite a humorous comeback, wasn’t it?” he asked sweetly, voice icy. He’d spent enough time around Umbridge last term, unfortunately, that he’d become fairly good at the whole false-kindness act himself. “Isn’t Potter just a delight, with his utter lack of respect for authority?”

The Gryffindor, rather than cowering under Draco’s predatory smirk, stuck his chin out and frowned. “We’re not scared of you, Malfoy.”

Draco leaned back, setting his shoulders and nodding. “Pity. Let’s both hope you’re a bit more afraid of Snape himself, then. Detention.”

The boy’s face froze, and he looked as if he was about to break. Then, he squared his jaw, nodded. “Let’s go, everyone,” he commanded like the very man himself, and the crowd of students complied, again, like the words had come straight down from Potter himself. Draco stood, unmoving, as the students dispersed, feeling deeply disconcerted by the whole ordeal.

He needed a drink. 

A quick trip back to his rooms left him slightly late for Charms but feeling infinitely better for the absolutely excellent scotch warming his belly. He crept into class, not wanting to disturb the lesson, but Flitwick appeared to have other ideas. 

“Unusual for you to be late, Malfoy. You’re a prefect. See that it doesn’t happen again.” 

Draco’s face burned as he took his usual seat next to Pansy, who was looking at him like she wasn’t sure whether to be sympathetic, concerned, or amused. She settled on questioning - a safe choice - and Draco passed her a note explaining his absence, his run-in with the horde of Potter-huggers and the necessity for reality-stabilizing liquor. She was duly understanding, and the rest of the lesson passed by without incident. 

The real trouble came when they entered the Great Hall after class, looking for a bit of a snack before their next round of lessons. Draco was keeping to himself, talking idly with Pansy and slathering jam on a biscuit, when a shadow fell over them. He looked up, expecting to see Blaise or, at the very least, Goyle. Instead, it was some idiot in a red and gold tie, leering down at Draco with disrespectful amusement.

Draco’s expression was one of disdainful interest, characteristic sneer in place and aristocratic eyebrow raised. “Are you lost, child?” 

“Heard you’re handing out detentions, Malfoy,” the boy said, crossing his arms in a blatant challenge, “Can I have one, or do I have to make you look like a git first?”

Draco turned to look at Pansy. “What are they putting in the Pumpkin Juice lately?”

“Are you jealous of Harry, Malfoy?” The boy was still going, Merlin’s beard! “Upset that no one takes you Slytherins seriously anymore?”

Draco was still debating as to whether or not he should even respond when who should appear but the goddamned Saint himself. Potter put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t bother Malfoy, Duncan,” Potter said, kindly but firmly. 

The Duncan boy turned and gazed up at Potter with the most disgusting look of abject adoration. “Sorry, Harry.”

Potter smiled ruefully. “If you have to fight, then fight. But don’t be the one that starts it.”

Draco could have vomited, but what a waste of a perfectly good biscuit that would be. 

Duncan scampered away, and now Potter’s rueful smile was fixed on him. “Sorry about that, Malfoy.”

Draco sniffed. “As you should be. You’re setting a rather poor example for these gremlins you call housemates.”

Potter’s temper visibly flared. “Yes, well, giving people detention over a joke isn’t right, Malfoy. You could be a little nicer.”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” Malfoy agreed venomously, “But then who would keep this culture of disrespect for authority you’re cultivating in check?”

Potter furrowed his brows, and it seemed for a moment he was actually considering Draco’s words. “I don’t ask them to follow my example.”

“And yet they do,” Draco pointed out, “You are their Chosen One, Saint Potter, and they will follow in your sacred footsteps wherever you go. Or have you not noticed the theatre troupes popping up in the hallways to re-enact your utter lack of respect for Professor Snape this morning?” 

“I never told them to do that,” Potter repeated, “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Yes, I have heard that,” Draco said with a dismissing wave, “Greatness thrust upon you and all like that, but Potter, people like you and I have a responsibility to not be complete arses in public. The impressionable youth, as the saying goes, is watching your every move.”

“People like you and I,” Potter repeated contemptuously, “You and I are nothing alike, Malfoy.”

“And thank Merlin for that,” Draco agreed.

“Oh, you two,” Pansy muttered, her eyes buried in the Prophet. 

“Oh, Parkinson has a comment?” Draco turned to face her. “What is it, then?”

Pansy dropped the paper dramatically, glaring between Draco and Potter sort of incredulously. “You two are always bickering with each other like some kind of old married couple. Honestly, you’re worse than my mother, Draco.”

Draco began to splutter a protest, but Potter beat him to it. “You know what? I actually don’t have time for this.” His eyes nearly burned a hole in Draco with the heat of his gaze. “Stay out of my way, Malfoy.”

“Your people were the ones harassing me!” Draco called to his retreating back. He shook his head before addressing Pansy. “We do not bicker, Pansy.”

“Draco, sweetheart, darling,” Pansy listed with false sincerity, “You and Potter are so gross together.”

“Potter is the gross one,” Draco argued, “With his smiles and those glasses and that stupid hair. The man has to be a Muggle. He’s obviously never cast a grooming charm in his life.”

Pansy seemed to consider this. “Or he’s straight?”

Draco pursed his lips. “Potter’s sexuality has never entered my thoughts before, and I’d thank you to not change that happy status.”

But Pansy’s eyes were now squinted over towards the Gryffindor table, where Potter was sitting between his idiot friends, watching them waffle back and forth over his head about some moronic topic, of that Draco was certain. “I can’t imagine he’s straight.”

“Pansy, please.”

“I mean, sure, everyone says he snogs the Weasley girl, but that is entirely false.”

“Pansy, no.”

“In fact, I hadn’t considered the details surrounding their little cover story in full until now.”

Draco despaired that he would not be allowed to finish his meal in peace. Resigned, he turned to watch Potter and his friends. “What cover story?”

Pansy did not move as she spoke, completely absorbed in her observation except for her fingers, nails drumming an impatient rhythm on her plate. “Potter and Ginevra.” 

“Ginevra?” Draco’s suspicions were officially aroused. 

Pansy’s eyes were soft, fond. “Ginny.”

“Oh, hell, Pansy.”

She hushed him sharply. “Of course, they seem like such a natural couple, and with things so political right now, who has the time to deny allegations, especially such benign ones?” The cadence of her voice was moving quickly, a clipped pace Draco was utterly helpless to keep up with for the bizarreness of the subject material. “Besides, as we both know quite well, having the masses believe you to be taken does wonders to keep the vultures away. As to why I didn’t realize the ruse went both ways, I cannot answer for.”

“English, Pansy.” Draco felt the beginnings of a headache drumming behind his eyes. 

“Potter is as queer as a silver Galleon.” 

Oh, hell.

Draco could not shake Pansy’s words. They followed him, haunting him like some brand new, utterly awful Hogwarts ghost. Potter, gay? Impossible, and for that matter, who cares? 

You care, a deep and altogether unwelcome part of him whispered.

Draco returned to his quarters promptly for another drink or three. This was unacceptable. Potter, gay? Unheard of. He’d never so much as bent a wrist all the years Draco had known him. He certainly did not dress or act queer. He didn’t talk queer. But then again, Draco operated under some deeply internalized stereotypes. It was possible that Muggles were simply more covert about these things. Or perhaps Potter was so deep in the closet, he’d yet to see the light that was combing your damn hair and maybe not wearing polyester blends anymore. 

Draco poured a fourth drink. He was aware getting sloshed in the middle of the school day was not very prefect-like of him, but if Potter indeed was gay, then reality had shifted and he could drink whiskey on a Tuesday afternoon. 

By the fifth drink, he knew his only hope of salvation was to find Potter and confront him about his sexuality. Yes, the only option available to him. Of course, that made perfect sense. Draco emerged from the dungeons and headed straight for Gryffindor tower. He knew that Potter had this block free, and he also knew that Weasley and Granger would be in the library snogging around this hour. He’d witnessed it enough stomach-churning times to be certain his conversation with Potter would not be diverted by Golden Trio shenanigans. 

He approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. “Excuse me, my good woman,” he said in the most polite tone manageable under the influence of quite this much scotch, “Is Potter home?”

The Fat Lady looked at him like he’d grown a third head. “Password?” she replied.

“I only wish to speak with Harry Potter,” Draco insisted, “I am a prefect.”

“You’ll need the password,” she repeated stubbornly.

Damn it all, when had the portraits become Potter loyalists? “I demand you bring Potter to me!!” he raged, jabbing a finger at the oil painting, “He and I have business!” 

“Why I never!” the Fat Lady exclaimed, a pudgy hand over her severely overtaxed heart. 

“Open up, lady!” 

“Leave at once, Mister Malfoy!”

“If you know who I am, you should know to do as I say, woman!”

The portrait swung open on it’s hinges, making the Fat Lady squawk in surprise. Potter stood in the portrait hole, hip leaned against the wall and arms crossed. “Malfoy, what do you want now?” he asked blandly, sounding entirely unimpressed.

Draco realized belatedly he’d been yelling rather loudly. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie.

“Are you drunk, Malfoy?” Potter asked, jumping down from the ledge to stand in front of him.

Draco wrinkled his brow. “What would give you that impression?”

“Your face is flushed,” Potter pointed out, “And you reek.”

“Yes, well,” Draco conceded, “I came to ask you something.”

Potter looked unimpressed, but he spread his arms wide. “Ask away, Malfoy. I haven’t got all day.”

Why did he feel suddenly shy? Oh, because this was an awful idea. He’d have to murder Pansy later for insisting on this whole sordid business. And he’d have to give up drinking. Wait, he wasn’t physically capable of either. Draco felt himself begin to panic, and so he simply blurted out, “What’s your sign?”

“My sign?” Potter repeated, “Leo, why?”

“Oh, my God,” Draco drawled, “The lion?”

Potter raised his eyebrows expectantly. 

“Uh,” Draco said intelligently. Why didn’t he formulate a plan? What kind of idiot simply walked up to his rival and asked for his astrological sign? For that matter, why would the same idiot ask for his rival’s astrological sign as a tactic to stall in his quest to discover his sexuality? Draco really couldn’t answer for himself, didn’t know why he’d even try, honestly.

“Malfoy, are you hitting on me?” Potter asked suspiciously. He was smiling, as well. Definitely not a good sign. “Because if you are, you’re not doing a terribly good job of it.”

“What do you know of seduction, Potter?” Draco retorted, latching onto the insult like a lifeline, “Last I heard, your girlfriend wasn’t terribly interested in your particular skillset.” 

Why in Slytherin’s name was Potter laughing? “I don’t know much about seduction, Malfoy, you’re right, but I know you aren’t supposed to show up drunk and babble incoherently at the other person.”

“Argument’s done alright by me so far,” Draco countered, unwilling to leave the routine of the fight even though Potter did not seem to be playing along with him anymore.

“I mean, sure, it’s interesting,” Potter conceded, and oh, Merlin, he was leaning in towards Draco, his breath ghosting over Draco’s lips and smelling of cinnamon, “But I do know that you’re supposed to compliment the other person.” His green eyes were entirely too close to Draco’s, the lenses of his glasses doing nothing to dilute the effect of that magnificent color. “You know, Slytherin green, I’ve always thought it was a becoming color on you.”

“Beg pardon?” Draco whispered, frozen in fear that, if he moved, he might accidentally kiss Potter, they were that close. 

“Yes, emerald is quite becoming on you,” Potter repeated. Then, he leaned back, hands in his pockets and cheeky smirk on his face. “But if I was on you, I’d be coming, too.”

By the time Draco’s brain returned to a functioning state, the portrait hole had closed and he was alone. When he realized what had happened, he let out a righteous roar of anger and stalked off, muttering to himself about plans for retribution. He would not take this lying down, he could not. This was yet another example of Potter being such a little shit, the absolute fucker, and Draco would not let him get away with it. Thought he could mock Draco Malfoy, did he? Thought he could hit on Draco Lucius Malfoy, did he? 

As luck would have it, Draco’s next class period was with Potter in Slughorn’s potions class. Though he hadn’t sobered up much, he was lucid enough to notice Potter casting him furtive glances in between his attempts to keep Weasley from blowing up the potions lab. Poor sod thought he was being subtle. Draco himself, being an expert at brewing while under the influence, was well on his way to earning house points for his spectacular Elixir to Induce Euphoria in spite of Potter’s distracting facial expressions and his own drunkenness. He’d been attempting to perfect said elixir ever since Potter had brewed it himself in class and had been complimented on his addition of peppermint. How Potter had suddenly become a potions expert, prone to ingredient improvisations, Draco could only make unflattering guesses.

As he was contemplating whether to mince the peppermint or crush it, he felt a presence hovering near his shoulder and cinnamon-scented breath ghosting his ear. “I cut mine into slivers.”

That settled it. Draco began crushing the leaves with the flat of his knife. 

“Ah, Mister Malfoy, attempting to recreate Mister Potter’s most wonderful Elixir from last week, are you?” Slughorn asked, evidently noticing the way Potter had snuck up on him and perhaps mistook it for Potter actually being helpful. 

“Not recreate,” Draco said with the shadow of a sneer, “Though Potter got lucky with his peppermint guess, I find that actually preparing the ingredients - rather than just tossing them in - helps to increase the effectiveness of a brew.”

Slughorn tsked in evident amusement, shaking his head sadly at Draco. “Jealous words, Mister Malfoy. Be grateful for your classmate’s help.”

“Oh, I wasn’t helping him, Professor,” Potter insisted, his own amused smile evident by his tone, “Malfoy doesn’t need anyone’s help, ever. He’s a prefect, you know?”

Slughorn laughed throatily. “Oh, Harry, you are a delight!”

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. 

Draco rounded on Potter, forcing down a blush as he realized just how close Potter was standing. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Potter?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Malfoy.”

“Oh, no, I would say you’re terribly clever,” Draco pushed, “In fact, I really must thank you for pointing out that little tidbit about our arguments earlier. Changing the game really will work to my advantage.”

“How do you figure that?” Potter’s brows furrowed in obvious confusion.

Draco smirked. “I think you’ll find that there’s more than one way to fight, Saint Potter. After all, seduction is much more effective than insults.” He hooked an arm around Potter’s shoulders and dragged his face closer to the potion, the vapors rising into their faces and blasting them with the smell of marshmallow and peppermint. Potter’s eyes took on a glazed look as he inhaled. Draco brought his lips to his ear and purred an incantation. Instantly, Potter’s eyes refocused on Draco, his pupils blown and his jaw slack. “That’s right, you filthy Muggle,” Draco insulted, albeit affectionately, “That’s a spell even Granger won’t know how to reverse. Just remember, you started this.”

He watched Potter walk away stiffly and grinned openly. He would need to remember to thank Pansy. This rivalry had all of a sudden taken a surprising yet altogether pleasant turn. Potter could sass and posture all he liked, could act defiant and pretend he was better than Draco until the sun went down. His utter disrespect for authority would continue to be the talk of the school, but his little pick-up line had dragged them into Draco’s territory, and if Draco knew anything, it was how to fight dirty. That was something no Gryffindor would be able to brag about.

Potter shot Draco a pained glance from the Gryffindor table, a high flush dusting his cheekbones with a color so lovely and red, Draco was tempted to call it becoming. An indulgent smirk spread slowly over his features, and he winked at the blushing Potter. Quite becoming, indeed.


End file.
